J'ai Mal au Coeur
by Kokura
Summary: The long-awaited sequel to Une Belle Journée. YuuRam - edit: title corrected


A/N: Weeeeeelll, here's the long-awaited sequel to Une Belle Journée; or, rather, what I have decided will be the original. There will be at least six other REmixes: La Fleur de Mon Coeur, l'Esprit de Mon Doleur, La Maladie de Mon Âme, l'Amour de Morte, Cendrillon (Nous Avons Dansé à Minuit), and Persaphe (Je Suis Morte en Hiver; Vous m'Avez Aimé le Printemps Prochain). Several parts will be repeated in each story, thus why they are "REmixes" (REvolution mixes). All or most of the excerpts in this can (eventually) be found on the AIIKSTUKO community webpage, posted by their original authors, although the poetry will be under Arethea's webnomer (Azranthea) with crediting to Azul.

Extra note: Please, don't read the original Une Belle Journée that is posted here on FF.N, as I don't like it as much as the revised and edited version, posted at AIIKSTUKO and in my journal, because several slightly fuzzy concepts are explained more in that one, and several inconsistencies are fixed. I haven't taken it down because it is the first version that I wrote, and I always keep the first and last versions to see any improvements. Also, I hate asking for feedback, but I am honestly getting a little fed up with the lack of response from my readers. I worked my and my sister's asses off for this, and I'd like to think that the people who read our hard work are at least courteous enough to appreciate and respond to that. If not, perhaps this will sway you; I also wrote an extended version NOT on FanFiction, and it is currently sitting on my desk. I write because I like it when others enjoy my work, and it really is a lot of work for me to finish things like this. Thank you for your consideration!

Edit: Oh my God, I was absolutely mortified to see that I had made a typo in the title - I opened my inbox today, and thirty-three e-mails bearing the legend "J'ai Mal au Couer" were staring me in the face. Ugh... Sorry, and congrats to all the people that noticed!

* * *

J'ai Mal au Coeur

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_O, dearest, lost, forgotten one; / I conjure you / by moon and star, _

_By sun and sky / by wind and rain / by ice and snow and deep, blue sea._

_I conjure you / b__y fire and earth / by thunder, lightning,__ metal, stone,_

_By darkness, light / - I conjure you - /__ my spirit's cry / and heart's red blood,_

_Life's warm embrace / __I conjure you; / by the Holy Nine / and Complete Ten,_

_by She who rules / a__ll living, dead / and shadow'd beings / by lost love and found._

_I conjure you / O dearest one / to come to me / tho' Death herself_

_Stand in the way. / I conjure you / to come to me / and be / as one_

_With me once more. / I conjure you / and abjure you / to rise again_

_Like the immortal phoenix / to return to life / as the sun does,_

_And, as the moon / regenerate all of / your once-lost / sweet favours_

_I conjure you / my dearest one / my lovely one / to return_

_And, above all / remain / with me / my darling / once more / and For Ever._

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* * *

It had been three weeks, five days, thirteen hours, fifty-six minutes, and thirty-five seconds since Wolfram had been buried.

One hundred and thirty-seven million, five hundred and ninety-two thousand and thirty-five seconds since the inhabitants of Blood Pledge Castle had interred what had once been their living treasure and Yuuri had had to be sedated and locked up in his room to keep him from mauling the undertakers (_why were they taking Wolfram? he'd screamed. he wasn't dead he couldn't be dead nonono not Wolfram never_ Wolfram).

Forty-one thousand, five hundred and ninety-nine minutes since Cheri had had to be restrained from throwing herself into the grave of her youngest, and secretly, favorite son, her baby, her darling (_no mother should ever have to bury her own child, never, never, never; it is cruel and it is unfair for a child brought into the world with his mother's pain to leave the same way_).

Six hundred and eighty-three hours since Conrad's smile had stopped appearing altogether on his now permanently tired and drawn looking face (_even after they found Wolfram, it had continued to appear in fits and starts, to reassure the young king, but like a dying candle it had flickered and gone out_).

Twenty-eight days since Gwendal's face had lost its intimidating frown and just begun to look old, far too old and far too tired (_there were whispers; what if he died? not another one, please no, not another; what would happen to the kingdom with the king unfit to rule and his advisor gone, gone, gone the way of his younger brother?_).

Three weeks since even Gunter had dropped his gradually crumbling facade of cheerfulness and had begun to drink (_and you could hear him, every night, in the empty darkness of his room, toasting invisible comrades and singing incomprehensible songs from who-knew-where that had one thing in common; they all sounded so, so sad_).

One month since the Maou's wedding day and the death of a spark in the castle that could never be regained.

----------------------

One short month, and a torturous eternity.

* * *

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't eat, drink, or do much else besides mope either, but the most pressing matter was his lack of sleep. In sleep, perhaps, he could escape to the sweet, muffled darkness of dreams. It had been like this ever since...ever since...

_...A lifeless body hanging on a tree, swinging listlessly and looking like nothing so much as a broken doll and oh gods, Yuuri hadn't realized exactly what it was for a moment and when he had, he'd felt as if his heart was shattering in his chest..._

NO! Wolfram was not dead; he could simply not be. Such a being as he was made for living, not the cold, cold travesty that was death. Death would be unreasonable, illogical, un_fair _to the _world_.

Wolfram could not be dead.

_Wolfram, Wolfram, come out, come out, wherever you are!_

_-here i am yuuri findmefindmefindme why can't you find me-_

_Wolfram, don't go, please, don't go, stay with me here, Wolfram, my Wolfram._

_-i'll stay because i love you yuuri myyuuri yourwolfram mineyoursmineyours-_

_I'll find you, Wolfram, I'll find you, can't hide from me, just wait, just wait!_

_-i'll wait for you yuuri foreverandeverandeverandeverandeverandever...-_

The Maou looked down at the paper that he had held, clutched tightly in his hand, since the tragic day of his wedding two weeks ago. The words, starkly black against the fine white paper (now almost beige-yellow) despite the ink being smudged and paper crumpled and torn by the sweat and tears of fourteen days, seemed to be knives as they stabbed into his heart. Wolfram had been so forgiving, so forgiving, even to the last, even as Yuuri threw him away as a fool does precious gems, not knowing their true worth even as he gazes upon the crystalline depths and their beauty, and perhaps that was what hurt him the most now, in his most despairing hour: that, although he had raged and stormed, Wolfram had always, always forgiven him and had only done things so that it might be turned to Yuuri's benefit.

_Haha, Wolfram, Wolfram, darling Wolfram, isn't it silly how everyone thinks you're gone? Isn't it, sweetling?_

_-yesyes yuuri sosillycan'tbelieveit honestly they should know that they can't get rid of me that easily notheycan't-_

_Hahaha, and I should know too, shouldn't I, Wolfram? I was stupid and tried to make you go away, but you came back..._

_-yes yes yuuri my yuuri shouldn't have made me go away now look what happened but i came back foryouforyouforyou-_

_And everyone is still crying and sad about how they think you're dead...You're not dead, are you, Wolfram?_

_-nono silly yuuri how can i be dead i'm talking to you aren't i silly boy lucky i love you or i'd have left by now-_

_Oh good. Say, now that I've found you, won't you stay with me?_

_-ofcourseiwillsillyyuuristaywithyoucan'tgetridofmenowsillyboy-_

A darkness overtook the mind of the king as he gazed upon the note, and he looked up, hands and body shaking, a terrible, terrible, unfocused expression on his face, unnoticed to himself, at a dinner knife that lay upon a tray of food someone (most likely Conrart) had had sent up. The knife was duller than he would have liked _(duller than the cutting edge of his pain),_ but oh, it was sharp enough, yes it was, for what he had in mind. He would not forget Wolfram, no, not as the other occupants of the castle had seemed to...

He would make sure of _that_.

_Everyone is really making me mad, Wolfram. They're all telling me that you're gone. I might never speak to them again._

_-it's okay yuuri we have each other yes and no one else matters when youhavemeandihaveyouandyouandihaveeachother-_

_Huh. You're right, Wolfram. I'm angriest at Conrart, though. I'd have expected better from him than lying to me._

_-it's not his fault yuuri he doesn't know any better because you and i are going to our little secret aren't we yuuri-_

_But they've forgotten you!_

_-but you haven't have you-_

_...That's right..._

_**I haven't.**_

Taking the knife in one trembling hand, he set the scrap of paper down for the first time since he'd taken hold of it and held the edge of the blade to the top of his forearm. With almost surgical precision, he began to carve his own flesh, smiling a horrible, empty, manic smile, and singing softly under his breath, never noticing the growing red stain on the bedsheets or the pain; the only remaining lucid thought was the determination to never forget his lost beloved, and that was clear and diamond-hard as words flowed from the knife-point, uneven and ragged _(not nearly as beautiful as Wolfram's lovely, flowing script had been)._ Dinner knives, after all, were never meant for the carving of human flesh.

------------------------------

The wounds would scab in mere hours and scar within days, leaving shining, opal-white marks on the light brown of his skin, the first of his private monuments to the memory of his lost beloved.

* * *

_Where did you go, my lover, my love?_

_Where did you flee to from this life?_

_Will I meet you again, in a darksome palace under earth,_

_Or in a lightning castle in the sky?_

_Sun-yellow, snow-white, rose-red, grass-green,_

_Why, oh why did you run from me?_

* * *

Heilwig was disappointed, angry, and frustrated. And, she admitted quietly, whisper-silent in her very heart of hearts, afraid. Very, very afraid. It had been a while since she had seen that horrible vision outside of her window, the ghastly image that had been, once, her now-husband's closest companion and, if rumor was correct, his ex-fiancée. He had been swinging gently from the tree branch right outside, and she had thought he was a ghost at first, with his wedding finery all rain-soaked and dripping water slowly, slowly, drop by drop, like tears or blood, with bits of bracken on his cloak and tunic. She remembered thinking that she would never forget the macabre image, and the night afterwards, in the cold, empty room where she had been shoved into a convenient room by the harried and frantic castle staff, _without_ her new-wed husband to comfort her, had been tormented by horrifying nightmares where phantoms screamed and shrieked that it was all her fault, all her fault that the man had died, all her fault that her husband was driven insane by grief, all her fault that the castle's inhabitants were emotionally ruined. It was all her fault.

Everything.

All her fault.

But that wasn't the worst part.

The worst part was that, somewhere, deep inside of her, she had a terrible aching feeling that all of it, all of the shrieked accusations and hysterical screams and angry cries, all of it was true.

The funeral had been horrible. She had not, specifically, been either invited to or banned from attending the final laying to rest of her husband's former fiancée (she'd gotten a vague feeling that most everybody was trying as hard as they could to forget her), and so had gone merely for the sake of going, partially out of a sense of obligation, partially because of a sort of morbid curiosity about what, exactly everybody found so entrancing about the dead man (and, though she would never admit, even to herself, except in that darkest of corners in her heart, partially because she wanted to show him, _you're gone, you're gone, he's _mine_ now, stop haunting him, he's_ _minehe'sminemineminegoaway_). So she had dressed in her most ornate red dress (red; blood red, heart red, love red, fire red, sin red, lust red, _death_ red, for the man whose body was going up in flickering flames and leaving spiraling clouds of ash on the breeze as it blew gently across the funeral pyre, fanning the blazing inferno) and stood, silent, next to the bonfire, its light reflecting in the rich fabric of her best clothing, as each attendee of the funeral passed by and threw something into the pyre as a sacrifice, a present for the dead to take to the next life, watching hundreds of tears drip...drip...fall onto the heat-browned, crackling grass, spattering there like rain. She had no sacrifice, nothing at all to apologize for stealing his life from him, and that was oddly appropriate. (_her presence was the body of her penance, and the symbol of her triumph..._) All around her had stood friends...family...of the deceased, and, as she walked by, each person she passed gave her a quick, sharp glance that, brief as it was, spoke entire novels on their feelings.

_It'syourfaultallyourfaultwhydidn'tYOUdieinsteadnobodylovesyounonotthewelovedhimnotyouneveryouneverneverneveryou_

and

_ifyouhadnevernevercomehewouldstillbealivestillbehereinsteadofyouwhydidyoucomeherewhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy_

and

_diediediediediejustgodielikehedidlikeyouSHOULDhavejustdiealreadynobodywantsyouhereanywaynotevenyourhusbandwhydo__n'tyoudie_

and

_whatareyoudoinghereyouhumanbitchyou'regloatingaren'tyouyousmugdisgustingbitchleaveordienobodywantsyouherenobody_.

Her presence was the real offering - her presence at the funeral of her rival, allowing all of his dear ones to say for him what he himself could not _(any longer)._

What could she do, what could she say to soothe the inflamed, bitter thoughts of the friends and loved ones of the departed?

Nothing.

(_...absolutely nothing..._)

What could she possibly change to make them happy?

Nothing.

(_...except kill herself, and was it fair that she, who had fought and climbed and snatched at this small tatter of happiness, was expected to let it all go with the swift kiss of a blade or the caress of poison to appease one now dead and gone?_)

So she'd stood there, and borne the accusing, harsh gazes of everyone that really mattered like the weight it truly was, the light casting flickering, dancing shadows over the redred clothing of all of the mourners, deepening scarlet to crimson and crimson to claret and claret into burgundy, and had watched the spirits of fire rise up from the other realm to claim one of their own, blazing forth in a brilliantly scarlet holocaust of flesh and bone and blood that quickly incinerated any and all evidence that a personage such as _Wolfram von Beilenfield _(_born 27 Fire Moon, Year 81 of the 26th Maou, (Year of the Rising Sun), died 9 Light Moon, Year 6 of the 27th Maou (Year of the Watered Spring), survived by mother Cecilie von Spitzberg, brothers Gwendel von Voltaire and Conrart Weller, and daughter Greta. Beloved son, brother, father, and friend, you burn bright in our memories and hearts though your ashes grow cold. Ich liebe dich, Liebchen, ich liebe dich. [The Maou had been listed as his fiancé at his request but Cecilie had taken one look at the paper inscription, the planning of her youngest son's plain headstone with the name of one of his murderers on it in the place that should have been occuppied by the one who loved him and was loved by him the most, another at the man who had caused her baby boy's death sitting in shock, heavily dosed with calming draughts, and, her eyes red-rimmed with madness and grief and fury, shrieking and spitting, had torn the thin sheet into a hundred-million pieces of oblivion_.) had ever existed, had ever tossed his golden head and stared imperiously down his aristocratic nose with green, green eyes, had ever branded himself into the hearts of countless other people, the last, tiny, inadequate reminder of a vibrant soul a pitiful stone mottled bright redorangegold and carved with silvered letters spelling out the heartbreaking memorial of someone who'd died too fast, too sudden, too soon.

After the funeral, Heilwig had gone back to the castle, gone back to her cold, cold room and lain there, on her cold, cold bed, for an infinity and a half, unmoving, unfeeling, wondering in the back of her mind, _if I were to die tomorrow, would anyone _(would _Yuuri_) _care as much as they did for _him _would they even notice would they mourn would they miss me would they regret that they knew me wouldtheywouldtheywouldthey?_

She didn't like the answer she found, buried in her subconsciousness.

_No._

She supposed that it was unreasonable of her to feel threatened by a dead man, a (_beautiful, beautiful, fascinating, entrancing, fiery, vivacious, beloved_) dead man now burned to ash and dust on the wind, a dead man that, for all intents and purposes, was permanently out of the picture now, a dead man who, when alive, had been loved and taken for granted, who, after death, was revered and (_worshipped_) adored, who, after death, supplanted her place in _life_.

She didn't care.

Now, the Maou was claiming to hear Wolfram's voice in his head and had shut himself up in his room, where any and all passerby could hear him holding long, fantastical conversations with the so-called spirit of his dead friend, and the ghostly dreams had attacked again, worse than ever before, hundreds and thousands of ghastly, bloody phantasms screeching the (_long, long_) list of her indiscretions, of her sins, of each and every fault she had ever committed in her life as she cowered on the floor.

This time, she was sure they would not leave her.

* * *

_'"...But aren't you Afraid of the Dark?' she asked, curious._

_The Cat smiled a Strange Smile and shook Its head._

**_'Why should I be Afraid of the Dark when it's the things that hide _inside**_** of It that haunt me?"**'_

- _A Revised Chronicle of Alice, in the Land of Wonders_

* * *

The Maou awoke, ten days after carving into his own flesh, lucid, for the very first time. Everything was crystalline, icy-sharp as broken glass and just as clear and painful when he touched it, edges cutting into his fingers, and held it up to the light. He could no longer afford to drown in his foolish, selfish pity, not when it was his fault in the first place. It was far past the time for him to rise up and lead his country instead of lazing about and forcing others to take on his responsibilities as he had been doing for far, far too long. He could see now that his insistence for the preservation of life had not helped his land but hindered it in its progress. His so-called open-mindedness and peaceful nature had already been the cause of one death too many...one very important death too many, and he would make sure that such a thing would never happen again.

Things were definitely going to change.

* * *

_"...the really sad thing is that, most of the time, it is the people with the best, the brightest, the purest intentions that hurt others, their loved ones, even the _world_, the most...and they never realize it..."_

- _Vice Versa; of Human Nature and its Contrariness _

* * *

_All around him...or, at least, what he thought used to consist of his body, was whiteness._

_He himself was floating...or was he? on specks and dots of brightness in a million colors, including black, and part of him thought that _some_thing was wrong with the fact that there were black lights around his...was that his body, or what was left of his body? Or maybe it was his soul, or whatever was left over from his earthly remains._

_But why was he here in the first place? Was he dead? He didn't know; for some reason, he was having a hard time thinking. Actually, he was having a hard time doing anything, but thinking was all that he deemed even close to possible at the moment._

_He could hear...shouting? a name...he...remembered wasn't really the word...something wet falling on his face, flashes of bright color, despair, fury...all whirling in his hazy, intangible mind..."WOLFRAM!"...who exactly was Wolfram and why was the person screaming for him? he wondered briefly. For some reason the name sounded so very, very familiar...but why?_

_There was...something...floating in the general vicinity of his mind, something he had to do...what was it? The moment he attempted to concentrate his thinking, a blindingly white wave of overwhelming pain crashed into him and ohgodithurtsobadly he thought he would...well...die. Again. He felt a sharp SNAP! as he remembered his neck breaking, a plunge downwards, and then finally..._

Oblivion.

* * *

_"'Where do you think we go when we die?'_

_He turned and looked at her. She looked relaxed, and her eyes were closed, chest rising and falling with the gentle movements of her breathing; there was nothing in her posture to indicate that she had asked a question of such philosophical importance, let alone spoken at all. He lay back down on the prickly, soft carpet of grass and lifted his hand to his face to watch the ant wandering around it, crossing over the back of his hand and his palm and eventually finding its circling, winding way down to his very fingertips and then all the way back to his wrist._

_'I'm not sure. Does it really matter?'_

_'No, not really. Still, wouldn't it be nice to think that, after we die, we can go somewhere and be together with everyone again?'_

_He shut his eyes and, on the black screen of the inside of his eyelids, let images of the people he had known flicker to life, some bright with remembered color and others mere faded remnants of once-vivid memories. Friends, lovers, family all, and part of him ached, ached for the warmth and the love once more._

_He let his eyes fall open again and resumed watching the ant crawl about the world that was his hand._

_Then he crushed it._

_'**No**.'"_

- _Hear the Crickets Cry_

* * *

The next morning, everyone in Blood Covenant Castle was immensely surprised to see their king staring outside of the breakfast window at the crack of dawn, very much awake and sober. He turned around when the main body of awakening breakfasters entered the dining room and gave them a small, empty smile, eyes blank and darkly intelligent.

"It's time for things to change," he said.

No sign of trying to shirk his duties by redirecting everybody onto some other task. Just a simple, straightforward statement that rocked their world on its axis and shook it to its core; the boy was a man, the fool, wise, the young, old. Gwendel (_still in mourning, and his stuffed animals had been swept into the funeral pyre with his poor, darling, dead baby brother, the baby brother he'd watched and loved quietly in his own way since Wol-Wolf- why oh why couldn't he say the name, the name of his brother, his kin, his flesh and blood, why was it so painful to even try, oh why?...since he'd been born and he'd stood there and watched the blood of his blood and the flesh of his flesh and the bone of his bones go up in smoke, so very, very appropriate, for him to go up in the flames he'd commanded. So very, very appropriate, and what W- he had wanted_) was shocked, and he could feel the slow, hot, bitter burn of rage rising up in his stomach. A year ago - no, even a month ago - he would have been relieved that the king was finally maturing, finally showing a capacity to do something besides run around on foolish whimsies, but now he was enraged, filled to the brim with righteous fury. Where had this responsible attitude been when his brother had needed it? Where? If he had been treated with responsibility, Wolf-...Wolfram (_there, he said the _name_ and oh it hurt like a thousand ice-hot needles plunged into the most tender places of his body_) wouldn't have been pushed aside for another, wouldn't have been devastated by his rejection, wouldn't have...wouldn't have killed himself. Yuuri always did things too late.

Far too late.

Gwendel surreptitiously glanced to the side to see how the rest of them were taking this...outrage. Gunter looked torn between the fragile seedling of hope rooted behind his eyes, and the crushing despair that their king, their young king had been the cause of so much sorrow and grief that had, in turn, caused him to change so abruptly into something unrecognizable. Anissina no longer took meals with the main body of the castle; she holed herself up in her laboratory each day, experimenting with increasingly dangerous materials, and hardly came out anymore. Gwendel supposed that it was her way of dealing with her own sadness; even though she had not interacted with his baby brother as much as some, Wolfr-_Wolfram_ (_whyohwhy couldn't he say his name?_) had had the ability to influence lives in a way that left a lasting impression for a long, long time. Cecilie had not come either; she had been the one most impacted by Wol...fram's (_and ohGOD every time he has to think that name, it gets easier and easier, but the pain focuses through the sharp crystalline prism of his thoughts and comes out as concentrated fury that burns and burns and burns_) death and now drifted through the castle, gaunt and wasted, dressed completely in the tattered rags of the whiteredblack (_white for innocence and purity (for pain), red for fire and love (for blood), black for royalty (for death))_ finery she had donned for the curséd wedding, haunted by the ghost of memory, of her youngest son, when she came out of her room at all. The maids were huddling at the back of the room behind the main body of breakfasters, and Gwendel noticed that, instead of their usual, almost annoying, cheerfulness, they seemed petrified of the strange man who stood before them that looked like the Maou, spoke in the same voice as the Maou, but _couldn't_...no,_ wasn't_ the Maou at all.

Gwendal had been, more or less, expecting the rest of the castle's inhabitants to react with indignation to this new Maou (_he had no right, no right at all, no right to change and look like he'd matured thirty years in a day when Wolfram, his baby brother, his own, darling brother, would nevereverever be able to have the opportunity to do the same_), and had thus anticipated their reactions. Therefore, the shock and disbelief that met his eyes as he swept his gaze across the room only startled him a little bit in its intensity.

It was Conrart's expression that surprised him the most.

Out of all of the many people that inhabited the castle, Conrart and Gunther were the two that were, perhaps, the most lenient and accommodating of the young king. Ergo, Gwendel had expected...expected...well, he wasn't sure what he had expected to show on Conrart's face, but it certainly was _not_ what _did_ appear on his (_still living, have to keep it that way_) brother's face.

He saw resentment and anger and...was that loathing? on his younger brother's face warring with each other and, for once, the usual affectionate look made no appearance - not even a hint of its presence on that diamond-hard visage with kind, brown eyes glazed over in a mocking parody of his usual faked cheerful subservience - at all. He supposed it was reasonable; after all, Gwendel knew that Conrart _did_ care (_had cared_) for Wolfram, in his own, careful way, and that the death of (_fire, life, gold_) their brother had been a crushing mutual loss. He remembered watching his brother's face crumple the same way his youngest _(other, dead and gone gone gone)_ brother had crumpled the wedding proclamation when it first came, watching Conrart's meticulous expression tear in two, the way Wolfram had torn the letter informing him of _his_ fiancé's engagement to another that included the invitation to the wedding, that horrible, terrible wedding, and thinking, in a traitorous section of his mind he usually hid away carefully (_it came out on the battlefield, snuck past his defenses if he wasn't careful, and made him dance amidst the falling bodies, revel in his enemies' pain and blood, and laugh when he was hurt, because the man who had just wounded him had only been able to do so because_ he didn't know that he was dead yet) _serves him right, he was always smilingsmiling, there's something _wrong_ with someone who smiles all the time now he knows what it feels like to hurt hurt hurt like you've never been hurt before serves him right. _There was none of that thinking now (_except in the darkest corner of his soul_), but he couldn't help but imagine that Conrart was making up for all of his years of following the Maou like a blind puppy (_but so, so much more dangerous_), by despising and detesting the figure he had once protected with the same detached intensity.

In his brother's brown eyes, he saw the flicker of white that so often announces the arrival of the king, Insanity, and his courtiers, Fury, Despair, Hatred, and, of course, Death, flitting on the sidelines.

And the world tipped over and was smashed into pieces that tinkled as they scattered at their feet.

* * *

_"There is nothing quite so alarming as a sudden change." - Anonymous_

_"Very few people are able to fully comprehend such drastic changes immediately; indeed, some never quite adjust." - A Treatise on Personality_

* * *

Ninety days.

It had been ninety days.

Ninety days since the wedding.

Two months since the Maou had made the first of his temples to the memory of Wolfram von Bielenfield.

Four weeks since the king had emerged from his room and begun really _ruling_ for the first time in his life.

One hundred and sixty-eight hours since he had requested books on the subject of magic (_and, _it was whispered_, especially those on necromancy and summoning departed spirits_) be brought to him.

Ten thousand and eighty minutes since he had started intensely perusing each and every one of the books in the ridiculously immense castle library (_he spent all of his time there now, and only he knew why_) in search of vital information.

--------------------------------

The time-limit was fast approaching, but for what, no one knew.

_

* * *

_

_The clock is ticking, ticking, ticking,_

_Hourglass-sand falling, falling, falling,_

_Time is running out,_

_Time is running out._

* * *

The Maou was...not exhilarated, exactly, but happy, certainly, in a detached sort of way. The past weeks of research had shown him that _there was a way_ to bring his darling back, to amend his wrongs. It was hard, yes, and would require more thought and effort than he had originally anticipated, but it would be worth it, he was sure, to have his belovéd by him once more.

He had already gathered the necessary information, written pages upon pages of detailed notes in a minute, perfectly formed scrawl (_his handwriting was one of the private, personal monuments to the dead that he'd built, bit by painstaking bit_) on the ritual, incantiations, contracts, and materials. He had taken time to review each procedure, had meticulously researched all of the possible ramifications of each and every action he would have to take, translated every word that would have to say, devoured all information possible about the Old Gods he would need to invoke, done anything and everything possible to ensure that the resurrection would go smoothly.

After all, almost everything depended on its success.

* * *

_"I remember my very first summoning._

_I was fifteen and stupid, two words that very often go together, and there was nothing in particular for me to do one summer day, so I resorted to outdated and esoteric spells as a source of amusement..._

_I wish I'd never done it."_

- _Nightsong_

* * *

The time was set.

A circle was drawn in a strange, literally colorless powder (_it sucked in light like a black hole; fitting, considering what it represented_) on the floor.

Inside of it were nine others in varying and shifting colors, every circle shifting between shades of its color, each precisely and accurately placed so as to take up an equal amount of space along the edges, leaving only space in the center for a nonagram, filled with the same black powder.

There were other things on the floor as well, but they weren't as important.

The ritual was about to begin.

* * *

_There are Nine in the mortal planes - Nine and One and all the same,_

_Four All-Mothers, five Daughters;_

_Of the Mothers -_

_The white, clear wind_

_The air that flows,_

_Aela_

_The green, soft earth_

_The growing things,_

_Gaei_

_The red-gold flame_

_The soothing warmth_

_Piar_

_The deep blue ocean_

_The endless water_

_Hiedr_

_Of the Daughters - _

_The clear blue ice_

_The falling rain_

_Adlune_

_The purple thunder_

_The noise of All_

_Lohil_

_The golden lightning_

_The glow of light_

_Nahil_

_The black of stone_

_The cold of stability_

_Shemilte_

_The silver of metal_

_The grey of change_

_Shomulte_

_A warning - _

_Do not forget the Tenth, or She will forget you_

_And Her name is held in highest praise_

_for She encompasses all,_

_Life and Death;_

_Auyan._

* * *

The Maou was physically awake and sat, sprawled, on his favorite armchair in his study-corner of the immense library. Mentally, he was only half there, and the other half was stuck in what should have been his "happy place", as he had heard it termed in his old world (_old life_), although, in his case, a more correct moniker would have been his "place of hallucinations". The last conjuring had given him all the signs of success, but as of yet, no concrete evidence had been established as to the actual results or whether he needed to try once more.

However, there _were_ extenuating circumstances...

At least ten times now, it had happened; he had seen Wolfram. Wolfram, who, he reminded himself, had been dead and buried for a month already, and who was certainly in no shape to go about the castle. Then again, Yuuri had only had a few glimpses of curling blond hair, flashes of bright green, and a swirl of off-white clothing fluttering around the corner as clues as to the identity of the person, but he knew that there was only one person it could be. Just as he knew it was impossible for said person to be still out and about...unless his work had succeeded. It _was_ possible - only just - and he certainly still held slight glimmerings of hope that it was so, but, at the same time, derided himself for holding on to such childish ideals. And then, half of him still lost in his deliberations, the awake half froze and became instantly alert, surreptitiously scanning the area to his side.

Someone

was

sitting

next

to

him.

And he saw gold-yellow and snow-white and peridot-green eyes staring, staring, staring.

Then the two parts of his mind finally joined together, and the Maou looked up into Wolfram's pale, glowing face.

* * *

_"'Have you ever wished that someone hadn't died?...That he or she could live again?'_

_'I don't know...I rather think that I'd be incredibly frightened to see one of my dead friends waltz up to me and start talking. It's not exactly something you see every day.'"_

_-_ _If Wishes Were Horses_

* * *

..."Wolfram?" he asked, softly, uncertain, hoping. "Wolfram, is that you?" 

The Wolfram-appartition turned towards him again and cocked (his?) its head, letting out a soft, questioning coo that echoed through the cold, bleak space of the library. It floated gently over to him, hair and cloak ruffling in a phantom wind, and finally stopped when it was almost directly in front of him. Wolfram-ghost tilted its head again, and made a moue of innocent curiosity that the _real_ Wolfram never would have made; at least, not in front of his king. That, more than anything else, reminded Yuuri that _this_ Wolfram wasn't alive, might not even be _real_. He reached out, futilely, feebly, to touch the thing he had conjured...

...and his fingers passed through its cheek.

He drew his fingers back quickly, burned by the cool mistiness of the creature's flesh, by the moist evanescence of it, the airy, nebulous quality that reminded him that it would fly into a thousand wisps of hopes and dreams with the slightest disturbance. Uncomprehending, Wolfram-conjure cooed again, a wordless, almost soundless whisper that blew through the empty library like the northern wind - hollow, and just as cold. It was unnerving, really, but he didn't care. All of his work, the long hours spent slaving over countless antiqued texts, the secrecy, all of it had culminated in this one glorious moment, when he could finally see his darling in front of him.

Everything was worth this moment.

* * *

_'"Nothing is ever worth sacrificing all else - what bothers _me_ is why so many people never seem to figure that out."'_

_- If Wishes Were Horses_

* * *

The first time, she saw blood running down the walls.

The second, faceless, hanging figures drifted after her in the hallways, heads awkwardly lolling on snapped necks, decked in bleached finery.

The third, screams echoed in her head at night, in the daytime, all the time and never stopped...

She stopped counting after that, the haunting blurring into one long, terrible event.

Heilwig tried telling her king (_not her husband, never her husband, not really, no love, no lust_) about the (_haunting, horror_) visions, but he had looked at her vaguely, blankly, uncomprehending, with his eyes full of bland, half-forgotten, mild affection.

No more.

She could take no more.

And if the cessation of her pain required her to give in to _its_ demands...

So be it.

* * *

_"Karma is a beautiful thing." - Anonymous_

* * *

They found her at daybreak.

* * *

_"...and with a long, long rope and a little help,_

_she went up, then down, then swung to a stop..."_

_

* * *

_

Nine days had passed since Wolfram had reappeared - and Yuuri couldn't be happier - but he had noticed that his fiancé seemed a bit disturbed as night bled into day and day into night.

The Maou tried asking what was wrong, but his fiancé had not spoken - not even once - since his return from the dead, and did little more than float by his side each day. Strangely enough, nobody had seen Wolfram at the same time that Yuuri was around. Each time they encountered another person, Wolfram disappeared mysteriously off to somewhere that only he knew and returned when the intruder (_for he couldn't help thinking that that was what Wolfram saw the others as_) had left.

On the tenth day, a miracle happened.

Wolfram-specter had been increasingly agitated as the day passed, and finally, after he and the Maou had gone to dinner (_although neither had actually touched the food on their plates, long stale and old_), he spoke for the very first time.

_yuuri_

he said,

_yuuri come with me_

_yuuri come with me_

The intial shock of hearing his belovéd at last speak faded into compliance as the Maou followed Wolfram through the door to their room, across the (_deserted?_) castle, into a high, high tower. On the balcony of the uppermost room, the phantom stopped.

_yuuri do you love me_

it said, inaudible voice pleading,

_yuuri do you love me_

Yuuri immediately answered.

"Yes."

_yuuri if you love me will you go with me_

_will you go with me now that i have to leave_

"Where are you going?" the Maou cried, voice full of disbelief, of shock, of pain.

_i have to go back yuuri_

_i can't stay here it hurts_

_it hurts yuuri and i have to go back_

_will you come with me yuuri_

_i don't want to be alone_

When the king next spoke, he was irresolute, one last spark of sanity keeping him.

"What about Shin Makoku? Who will rule? What about the inhabitants? I cannot leave without contacting them - I have long passed the time when such childish endeavors are appropriate-"

_yuuri if you love me why won't you go with me_

_why won't you come_

_you don't love me_

_do you_

The spark went out.

"What do I do?"

Wolfram-ghost walked over, backwards, to the edge, beckoning the Maou over to him, never turning to look behind him.

_just come with me_

He hesitated.

_yuuri yuuri come with me_

it mouthed, and held out its hands beseechingly.

"Yes," said Yuuri, already striding over, blindly following his life, his love, his Wolfram over, over, over the balcony and on to thin air. He almost fell...

...but Conrart caught him in time, just as he was going over the edge, Greta right behind him. As the black, heavy clothing strained, barely keeping from tearing, between his fingers, the guard's face was a terrible struggle between his duty and the visible urge to_ let the bastard go didn't his brother deserve this last gift just one last gift_

The specter let out a silent cry of despair and reached for Yuuri one last time.

The Maou twisted out of Conrart's grip...

...and fell to the earth.

* * *

_L_e _f_i_N_

* * *

* * *

_J'ai Mal au Coeur_

_"Concentration" - v. 01_

* * *


End file.
